4. August

Chapter four

August

T he restaurant was modest, with a standard menu of comfort food and a wine list consisting of two choices: Red or white. Constance had picked the location for dinner, and considering Peterborough was a small city in relation to the various others I’d visited over the years, it could have been worse. I wouldn’t begrudge her on the first day of school. We were meant to be celebrating.

Although agreeable to dinner out, Constance made no attempt to share her impressions of Timber Creek, the faculty, or her assigned schedule. Since arriving at the restaurant, she’d picked at the complimentary bread rolls, tore a napkin to pulp, and people-watched. It was as though I didn’t exist.

“How was day one?”

She shrugged noncommittally, more interested in a family dining a few tables away. A mother and father seemed entrenched in a silent argument while continuously shooting daggers at one another across the table. A teenage girl, more focused on her phone than the untouched lasagna heaped on her plate, and two boys who looked to be about eight and ten, horsing around with their french fries in a manner inappropriate for dining out—or eating in for that matter.

I sipped red wine and searched for our waiter. A meal might divert Constance’s attention to our table since my company failed to do so. “Do you have homework?”

No eye contact. She shook her head and stirred the thick milkshake she’d ordered with the paper straw.

“Make any friends?”

I earned a dirty look that conveyed I was an idiot, coupled with another head shake

I sighed and attempted a humorous angle to see if I could draw some life out of her. “Don’t forget my stance on dating. Unless he can play Stravinsky’s Trois mouvements de Petrouchka backward while standing on his head, he isn’t worthy of my daughter.”

Constance rolled her eyes.

Every conversation since October, when I’d taken custody of my daughter, followed the same pattern. I talked, and she either nodded, shook her head, rolled her eyes, or shrugged, depending on the question or context of the offered dialogue. In the beginning, I’d found it infuriating and insisted she stop being difficult. Informing her she ought to use her voice or else. Or else what? I didn’t know. I’d paid for the best speech therapy in the world, so in my opinion, she should damn well use the skills she’d learned to communicate.

Teenagers, however, were of a different breed, and there existed no minacious threat strong enough to force them to do anything they didn’t want to do. Constance was especially willful, and since Chloé had given up and allowed our daughter to use the sign language she’d been taught as a child, I was the spiteful parent.

I tried a new angle. “How was music class? I have a feeling you might be able to teach your instructor a thing or two.”

Basal gestures and a sulking posture were so commonplace that I flinched when Constance snapped to attention with a flash of anger. I expected a flurry of hand movements I wouldn’t understand, so when she rose from the table and returned with a fresh napkin and pen, it took me by surprise. Not once in the months we’d been cohabiting did Constance make communication easy.

She spent a minute furiously writing before shoving the napkin toward me and crossing her arms.

“What’s this?” I asked.

She stabbed a finger on the table and pointed at her written message.

I read. Why do you have to be such an egotistical show-off? I don’t need you hovering over me. Mr. Edwidge was the nicest teacher I had today. He was warm and understanding, unlike you. He doesn’t need your help, and I don’t need you constantly in my face. Stay home.

Frowning, I glanced at my daughter. “I don’t understand.”

She snatched the napkin back and wrote again with such passion the pen tore through in places.

Why can’t you be normal? Why do you have to make everyone feel small? You don’t need another job. Stay home and work on that stupid composition you were hired for. Leave Mr. Edwidge alone. He doesn’t need your expertise .

She underlined the word expertise , although it needed no added emphasis. The sentiment showed in the bold press of the pen. Confused, I replayed the exchange with Timber Creek’s music teacher, seeking evidence I’d overstepped. Was my lesson on Gaspard de la Nuit misconstrued? Did Niles think I was showing off? Had I made him feel small? I’d only wanted to help.

It would explain the surliness I’d encountered.

Since my daughter’s concerns seemed multilayered, I let the narcissistic implication fall to the wayside and focused on the more pressing matter of my attendance at the school.

“I’m sorry you’re unhappy with this decision, but your mother and I discussed sending you to school and felt it was in your best interest if I—”

She tore the napkin from my hand, ripping the corner. Again, she penned a message.

“I wish you would speak to me properly.”

Constance paused long enough to sneer before continuing.

Mom didn’t agree with this. She would never have sent me to school. My best interest would have been staying with her. I liked my tutors. I liked my life. You ruined everything. The least you could have done was stick up for her. You should have stayed in Chicago.

The untimely arrival of our meals halted the conversation. I took a moment to process the hatred and accusation in my daughter’s written tone. Chloé hadn’t agreed with me about school, that was true, but Constance’s view surrounding everything else was skewed, and I’d become the scapegoat for her anger.

I thanked the server, requested a second glass of wine, and positioned a napkin on my lap, still absorbing Constance’s hurtful words. I couldn’t tell my daughter I didn’t want to be there either, that I would have much preferred staying in Chicago than racing to Ontario to rescue her. I’d never played an active role in Constance’s life. Over the years, Chloé had allowed me to come and go as I pleased, so I’d focused on my career instead.

When Constance was first diagnosed, I’d gone home and tried to have a proper relationship with Chloé, to be the parent I was supposed to be. It had been an utter mess. I was miserable without music, and Chloé was miserable with me.

My silence persisted for too long. Constance rolled her eyes and reached for the makeshift notepad I’d discarded.

I removed it from her hand before she could scold me anew, crumpling it into a ball. “No more. Eat your dinner.”

The meal passed uncomfortably, the air between us doused with hostility. Instead of objurgating my daughter on things she didn’t understand, I cleared my mind with some Debussy, hearing the notes in my head and imagining “Syrinx” flowing effortlessly off my fingers, filling an auditorium.

It gave me peace and took me away for a while to a place where the world hadn’t been turned upside down, where I wasn’t fully responsible for the well-being of a depressed, disabled, and stubborn daughter who hated and blamed me for her misery.

At one point, Debussy changed to a faint tune, a few bars of music I’d heard earlier in the day. It was nothing more than a handful of connecting notes. I couldn’t name the piece or recall when I’d heard them, but they lingered.

Constance picked at her food, eating small morsels of cheese-baked macaroni while cautiously sipping the milkshake between bites. As instructed by the team of specialists, she pressed against the prosthesis when swallowing the thickened liquid to ensure a tight seal of the plug to prevent leaking.

Eating had been the first challenge. Upon conquering this initial summit, we realized the mountain of woes, ascending beyond the clouds, stretched to a height we never knew existed. We were still climbing, and the clouds blocked our view of the peak.

In the early days of the TEP, Chloé hired someone to make special scarf-like TEP covers suitable for a teenager. Constance owned one for every color of the rainbow and several with fancy patterns to match any outfit she might want to wear. It gave her a unique style and flair, but they never made her happy.

As dinner progressed, the unknown music vanished, replaced once again by “Syrinx.” “Syrinx” became Chaminade’s “Concertino,” and my thoughts drifted to that morning with Niles. I must have been too caught up in my inappropriate musing of his person to fully register the hurt I’d caused.

Constance slapped the table, drawing my attention.

“What? Don’t do that. It’s rude.”

She pointed to her mouth, then made the universal sign for be quiet . Unsure what had invoked such reproach, I stared at my daughter as I finished the last few bites of seafood ravioli from my plate and drained the wine. When I caught myself humming and my daughter silently shushed me again, I understood.

Constance had long ago pushed her plate aside, abandoning more than half her meal. Her appetite had never returned after chemo, and the doctors worried she was underweight for a girl her age.

I didn’t have the capacity to argue any longer, so I paid for dinner and followed her out to the rental car.

At the cottage, Constance went to her room. I didn’t expect to see her again for the rest of the night. Hearing the soft reverberation of the violin, I smiled. Music was the only thing we had in common, and hearing her practice soothed the ache in my heart.

I retrieved the growing stacks of pencil-marked staff paper from my desk and deposited myself at the upright Steinway in the corner of the living room. Constance had her vice, and I had mine. Together, yet apart, we played.

Hours passed as I worked on a commissioned piece of music, scribbling and erasing like a man on a mission, pounding out chords and testing arias, experimenting with arpeggios and various dynamics. The whole while, Constance entertained with Bach, Mozart, and Haydn.

Constance’s playing ended at nine thirty, and I assumed she’d gone to bed.

It was long past midnight before I did the same. Drifting off to those same few unknown bars of music that had troubled me at the restaurant, I tumbled into a dream where together Niles and I played Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony on the piano in his music room. Shoulder to shoulder, the hot press of his body lit me on fire, stirring desires I hadn’t felt in years.

In the bright light of day, I would have denied the feelings, but in sleep, I had no control.

***

Wednesday, the first day of my guest teaching position, dawned gray and wet. Low clouds moved swiftly across the charcoal sky. The snow of the previous two days had melted into mucky sludge along the cedar chip paths, and a cold December wind blew off the lake. Timber Creek’s sodden campus emitted pungent odors of pine, fishy water, and wet earth.

Constance marched ahead as she’d done the first day of class, refusing to acknowledge my presence or engage in conversation. When I’d spoken to her mother on the phone the previous night, I’d lied and told her our daughter was adjusting well. In truth, we’d barely talked since dinner at the restaurant on Monday, and if school was troublesome, I would likely be the last to find out.

When I’d tried to engage Constance in meaningful conversation the previous afternoon, she’d piled her homework on the dining room table and given me the I’m busy glare with which I was intimately acquainted.

Constance cut across the parking lot and entered the main building, veering down a hallway and vanishing from sight before I could catch up or say goodbye. I considered chasing her down but aimed for the music room instead, pretending my feelings weren’t hurt. The goal was to arrive early so I could talk to Niles before class, apologize for my behavior on the day we’d met—although I still didn’t know where I’d gone wrong—and offer to start again on the right foot.

The classroom was empty, and only when the bell rang and no one showed up did I recall the first-period spare. For all I knew, Niles would spend the time in the staffroom or library simply to avoid running into me too soon. Maybe he’d decided to sleep in and was wandering his house in boxers with his long hair brushing the edges of his collarbones.

I immediately dismissed the thought before it grew into something I couldn’t contain. Dreaming inappropriately was one thing, but I was wide awake and refused to consciously entertain such notions.

I wandered to the center of the room and the conductor’s stand, glancing at the risers, stands, and empty chairs. Self-conscious, I touched my necktie as I envisioned a full body of students, an audience, and spotlights warming my cheeks. I buttoned my jacket and stood tall.

Music filled my head. I picked up the baton from the conductor’s stand and took control. A haunting requiem, a dainty ballad, a punchy, complex concerto. Conducting was a position I’d filled many times in the past. In Vienna, Bologna, and Ibiza. I loved the power of having an entire symphony orchestra at my mercy, commanding every nuance of an ensemble.

I swung my arm in accordance with the complex 7/8 time signature, emphasizing certain passages with hard strokes of the wrist while softening others with smoother movements and a lighter touch. I heard it all and felt the music in my veins. Every note. Every crescendo and decrescendo. Every accent and articulation.

The music ended, and I opened my eyes to find empty chairs and empty stands. What was I doing? Why was I here? I didn’t belong. Years of study and practice, only to land in a high school music room seemed unjust. Worse, the man running the department had already classified me as an intrusive show-off.

Unfairly dejected, I replaced the baton, undid my suit jacket, and sat at the piano bench. The chipped ivories carried a history I knew nothing about. How many musicians had sat on this bench and played these keys? How many tears had been shed? How painful were the finger cramps and shoulder aches? How many had given up? How many had gone on to make something of their lives?

Would my presence at the academy make a difference, or was I wasting my time? I loved my daughter, but until recently, I’d never had to sacrifice anything for her benefit. Timber Creek Academy was a sacrifice. Maybe I wouldn’t feel resentful if she didn’t turn everything into a challenge.

I didn’t classify myself as a good father , but I put Constance first, as was required and expected. I took care of her needs and parented the only way I knew how. Shamefully, in the dark recess of my mind, I was a selfish bastard who missed his old life and hated Chloé for putting me in this situation. I wanted to be back in Chicago, in the first chair, in the first row, where I belonged.

Unsettled, I began to play, starting with a lesser-known piece by Rachmaninoff but quickly moving on to Liszt. From there, I played a bit of Brahms, Gershwin, and a particular piece I enjoyed by Wagner. None of it settled my troubled soul. None of it vanquished the guilt or resentment I held toward my daughter and Chloé. None of it would give me back the position I’d abandoned with the orchestra.

Focusing my energy elsewhere, I considered Timber Creek’s music teacher, wishing I could find the power to hate him or not care what he thought of me. Instead, I tumbled into dreamland, reminiscing about wild, wheat-colored hair splayed on a pillowcase, sunset eyes, a tightly bearded jaw, and the strained stretch of tendons along a neck tipped back in ecstasy.

My tempo changed. I was not one to rush when I played, but as my heart picked up, so did my pace. The tune shifted to those few random bars. I added to them, following the path of the music wherever it might lead.

I inhaled the rich foresty scent of Niles’s skin and imagined the warm press of his body against my own.

My dream had not been this detailed, but as I conjured far lewder fantasies and slipped deeper into a rarely explored hole in my mind, I forgot where I was and what I was doing. Only when I fumbled the notes, the error jolting me back to reality, did I give my head a shake and scowl.

No. I wasn’t going there. That wasn’t me. I didn’t do those things anymore.

Also, the piano was definitely out of tune. Niles didn’t know what he was talking about, and if he ever showed his face, I would tell him as much.